breath. The great joy of the cavalry was to be so far away, out in the clean air, the open spaces, away from those damned councils. There were some moments, like now, when he felt no superior presence at all. Buford shook his head. He had been badly wounded in thewinter, and possibly as you got older you had less patience instead of more. But he felt the beautiful absence of a commander, a silence above him, a windy freedom.
The last Reb infantry walked away over the last rise. The Reb officer stood alone for a moment, then waved again and withdrew. The ridge was bare.
Buford sniffed: distant rain. The land around him was hot and dry and the dust of the horses was blowing steadily up from the south as the wind began to pick up, and he could see a darkness in the mountains, black sky, a blaze of lightning. A squadron of Gamble’s cavalry moved slowly up the road. Buford turned again in the saddle, looked back again at the high ground. He shook his head once quickly. No orders: you are only a scout.
Devin rode back, asking for instructions as to where to place his brigade. He had a cheery boyish face, curly yellow hair. He had much more courage than wisdom. Buford said abruptly, accusing, “You know what’s going to happen in the morning?”
“Sir?”
“The whole damn Reb army’s going to be here in the morning. They’ll move right through town and occupy those damned hills—” Buford pointed angrily—“because one thing Lee aint is a fool, and when our people get here Lee will have the high ground and there’ll be the devil to pay.”
Devin’s eyes were wide. Buford turned. The moods were getting out of hand. He was no man for war councils, or teaching either, and no sense in brooding to junior officers—but he saw it all with such metal brilliance: Meade will come in slowly, cautiously, new to command, wary of reputation. But they’ll be on his back from Washington, wires hot with messages: attack, attack. So he will set up a ring around the hills and when Lee’s all nicely dug in behind fat rocks Meade will finally attack, if he can coordinate the army, straight up the hillside, out in the open in that gorgeous field of fire, and we will attack valiantly and be butchered valiantly, and afterward men will thump their chests and say what a brave charge it was.
The vision was brutally clear: he had to wonder at the clarity of it. Few things in a soldier’s life were so clear as this, so black-line etched that he could actually see the blue troops for one long bloody moment, going up the long slope to the stony top as if it were already done and a memory already, an odd, set, stony quality to it, as if tomorrow had occurred and there was nothing you could do about it, the way you sometimes feel before a foolish attack, knowing it will fail but you cannot stop it or even run away but must even take part and help it fail. But never this clearly. There was always some hope. Never this detail. But if we withdraw—there is no good ground south of here.
This
is the place to fight.
Devin was watching him warily. Buford was an odd man. When he rode off there by himself he liked to talk to himself and you could see his lips moving. He had been too long out in the plains.
He looked at Devin, finally saw him. He said abruptly, “No orders yet. Tell your men to dismount and eat. Rest. Get some rest.”
He rode slowly away to inspect the ground in front of him, between him and the Rebels. If we made a stand here, how long do you think we could hold? Long enough for John Reynolds to get here with the infantry? How long would that take? Will Reynolds hurry? Reynolds is a good man. But he might not understand the situation. How do you make him understand? At this distance. But if you hold, you at least give him time to see the ground. But how long can you hold against Lee’s whole army? If it is the whole army. These are two very good brigades; you built them yourself. Suppose you sacrifice them and Reynolds is
The last Reb infantry walked away over the last rise. The Reb officer stood alone for a moment, then waved again and withdrew. The ridge was bare.
Buford sniffed: distant rain. The land around him was hot and dry and the dust of the horses was blowing steadily up from the south as the wind began to pick up, and he could see a darkness in the mountains, black sky, a blaze of lightning. A squadron of Gamble’s cavalry moved slowly up the road. Buford turned again in the saddle, looked back again at the high ground. He shook his head once quickly. No orders: you are only a scout.
Devin rode back, asking for instructions as to where to place his brigade. He had a cheery boyish face, curly yellow hair. He had much more courage than wisdom. Buford said abruptly, accusing, “You know what’s going to happen in the morning?”
“Sir?”
“The whole damn Reb army’s going to be here in the morning. They’ll move right through town and occupy those damned hills—” Buford pointed angrily—“because one thing Lee aint is a fool, and when our people get here Lee will have the high ground and there’ll be the devil to pay.”
Devin’s eyes were wide. Buford turned. The moods were getting out of hand. He was no man for war councils, or teaching either, and no sense in brooding to junior officers—but he saw it all with such metal brilliance: Meade will come in slowly, cautiously, new to command, wary of reputation. But they’ll be on his back from Washington, wires hot with messages: attack, attack. So he will set up a ring around the hills and when Lee’s all nicely dug in behind fat rocks Meade will finally attack, if he can coordinate the army, straight up the hillside, out in the open in that gorgeous field of fire, and we will attack valiantly and be butchered valiantly, and afterward men will thump their chests and say what a brave charge it was.
The vision was brutally clear: he had to wonder at the clarity of it. Few things in a soldier’s life were so clear as this, so black-line etched that he could actually see the blue troops for one long bloody moment, going up the long slope to the stony top as if it were already done and a memory already, an odd, set, stony quality to it, as if tomorrow had occurred and there was nothing you could do about it, the way you sometimes feel before a foolish attack, knowing it will fail but you cannot stop it or even run away but must even take part and help it fail. But never this clearly. There was always some hope. Never this detail. But if we withdraw—there is no good ground south of here.
This
is the place to fight.
Devin was watching him warily. Buford was an odd man. When he rode off there by himself he liked to talk to himself and you could see his lips moving. He had been too long out in the plains.
He looked at Devin, finally saw him. He said abruptly, “No orders yet. Tell your men to dismount and eat. Rest. Get some rest.”
He rode slowly away to inspect the ground in front of him, between him and the Rebels. If we made a stand here, how long do you think we could hold? Long enough for John Reynolds to get here with the infantry? How long would that take? Will Reynolds hurry? Reynolds is a good man. But he might not understand the situation. How do you make him understand? At this distance. But if you hold, you at least give him time to see the ground. But how long can you hold against Lee’s whole army? If it is the whole army. These are two very good brigades; you built them yourself. Suppose you sacrifice them and Reynolds is
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